


Wear the damn hat!

by ScarletClaw



Category: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson - Fandom, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 17:49:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9503063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletClaw/pseuds/ScarletClaw
Summary: Epiphany - a moment of sudden and great revelation or realization.John has an evening to himself. Time to relax with a glass of wine and reflect on life. Wonder what, or rather who, his thoughts turn to...?





	

What a busy week it had been at 221b, mused John, as he collapsed with a satisfying grunt into his chair. After the lull of the previous month, suddenly it seemed as if all the criminals in London had got together and decided to arrange a string of complicated, confusing cases that had Lestrade scratching his head and Sherlock positively foaming at the mouth with excitement. Multiple murders, a couple of abductions, the odd jewellery heist and a disappearing vicar that had even Sherlock stumped - for only the briefest of moments, of course, as his brain loved nothing more than a mystery that at first seemed unsolvable. He was out at Scotland Yard at that precise moment, tying up a few loose ends and - John guessed - probably showing off.

"Shame you didn't take the damn hat with you," he muttered out loud, spotting it on the back of Sherlock's chair as he stretched his legs. The silence in the flat was deafening - even when Sherlock was quietly thinking, his very presence filled the air and gave the place a comforting atmosphere. John drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. What to do with himself? Nothing on tv, his blog up to date, no books to read, nothing interesting to research online...he reached for his phone and texted Molly, who was on babysitting duties that evening. She'd been a rock since he'd lost Mary and had offered to look after Rosie that night to ensure John could give his full attention to their suddenly increased caseload. Of course, with Sherlock being such a smart arse, they'd - well, he'd - got everything tied up ahead of time, so now John didn't even have the attentions of his young daughter to keep him occupied. A whole evening to himself. He should enjoy the luxury of some downtime really, some peace and quiet...hang on, wasn't there a nice bottle of red wine in the kitchen, a present from a grateful client? Excellent, he'd just open the bottle and enjoy a glass, Sherlock wasn't much of a drinker so really he'd be doing him a favour.

Finding the wine was easy, locating a corkscrew and a glass that didn't contain some random body part or other was slightly more difficult, but eventually John was back in his chair with his drink, the bottle placed on the floor, just in case the need for a top up became apparent.

"Cheers!" he toasted Sherlock's hat, raising his glass and smirking at the thought of the raised eyebrow that the hat's owner would lift if he could see him talking to an inanimate object. The wine was strong and delicious, sending a warm glow through John's body. He sighed contentedly and relaxed, the stress of the week finally starting to leave him. As his thoughts drifted, one thought kept niggling away at him - what time would Sherlock be back? Not that it mattered, of course, he was more than capable of letting himself in and had even been known to manage to feed himself - as long as the chip shop was open, that is! John chuckled softly under his breath - Sherlock was many things, but a food connoisseur certainly wasn't one of them. What else wasn't he good at? Well, the solar system and the monarchy were weak points, to say the least, but what else didn't Sherlock excel at? John thought hard and drank deep - oh, that was the end of that glass of wine. He absently reached for the bottle and poured in another generous measure, after all it seemed to be helping his thought processes, apart from the fact he'd just forgotten what he'd been ruminating on...oh yes, the list of Things Sherlock Is Bad At. Food. Planets. Royalty.

Royalty! How could he forget the look on Mycroft's face when John had arrived at the Palace, slightly breathless from the exhilaration of the helicopter ride, to find a sheet clad Sherlock perched haughtily on the edge of an antique sofa. No one else would have the audacity to turn up at Buck Palace buck naked - oh. John's cheeks suddenly flared at the thought of his friend in such a state. Why on earth should he think about that now, after all this time and after all they'd been through? Time for another list.

How about Things Sherlock Does That Annoy Me? Yes, that list would be much easier to compile. For starters, there were the bits of dead people stored in unsuitable places, the holes in the woodwork due to frustrated stabbing at unanswered paperwork, the sighing at John's quite frankly mystifying inability to follow his train of thought...oh, he should write these down, these were so familiar and just the tip of the iceberg! John chuckled to himself as he thought of all the exasperating moments that had, in an instant, turned to admiration at his friend's brilliance - well, perhaps not the sighing, even though Sherlock was quite clearly a genius it was still annoying to be patronised. John knew he wasn't a idiot, on the contrary it took years of dedication and studying to be allowed to use the title Doctor, but Sherlock...well, he was something else. Something arrogant, frustrating, dangerous, wonderful...hang on, wonderful?

"This is what happens when you have too much time on your hands," muttered John to himself, "your mind starts making up all sorts of nonsense." Another seemingly random thought popped into his head.

In Vino Veritas - where had that come from and why couldn't he remember what it meant? His slightly fuzzy subconscious had a little ruminate about that one as he remembered the look on Sherlock's face, just after he'd head butted him in the cafe when he'd had the audacity to actually not be dead and to think he could just turn up, unannounced, after two whole years. The alcohol took the edge off the bitterness of the memory and John could, for once, ponder his reaction. Yes, he'd been stunned, shocked, furious at being taken for a fool, but now he was starting to see that Sherlock's intentions, misguided though they might have seemed, had John's safety at heart. Of course, John had sulked magnificently and refused to listen to him, but then Sherlock had saved him from the bonfire, then saved him again (and several thousand Londoners) from being blown to smithereens by defusing the bomb on the train. Ah, the train...when John, believing he was finally staring death in the face, had tried to tell Sherlock how much he meant to him. Although he'd struggled over his words, had he managed to convey how much he respected and worshipped his friend?

Worshipped? Blimey, thought John, what's in this wine?

Alcohol, you fool, his subconscious replied, and by the way, In Vino Veritas means - in wine, truth. You know the truth but you just can't bring yourself to see it.

"Great," muttered John, "a whole evening to myself with nothing to do and what do I end up doing? Talking to myself about Sherlock. Why? Why can't I just switch off and relax for once? Bloody Sherlock! Aha!" John suddenly had a wicked thought and, pausing only to top up his glass, did something very naughty indeed - he plonked himself down into Sherlock's chair and assumed what he thought was an arrogant pose. Affecting a deep baritone, he began.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, how dare you insult my intelligence by breathing the same air as such a mighty creation as myself?" John spluttered with laughter at his audacity. "I'm soooo clever and I know everything, I can even tell what you had for dinner a week last Wednesday and just to show you how smart I am-" John reached behind him "-I shall wear the damn hat!" and pulled it onto his head. He raised his glass to his lips, chuckling as he did so, but then something made his heart pound and his head spin.

The unmistakable smell of Sherlock, warm and earthy, was impregnated in the fabric of his hat. John had a vision of the two of them, so close their faces were touching, and Sherlock was gazing into his eyes with that intense look of his, their breath mingling and their hearts racing as Sherlock raised a slim, pale hand to gently stroke John's cheek. The thought made John's legs go weak and he gasped for air, slumping backwards into the chair.

Have you worked it out yet? came that annoying subconscious voice again. Remember the very first moment you saw him? The way your heart leapt? It's doing it now, isn't it?

"This is ridiculous," grumbled John, "am I having the I'm Not Gay conversation with myself now?"

Never said you were, said the voice in his head, but you still love him.

John wasn't a terribly religious man, but at that precise moment he had what he could only describe as an epiphany. All the confusing thoughts, feelings, emotions of the last seven years suddenly made complete sense and he was struck by an incredible, blinding moment of clarity, as if a light had been switched on in the darkest room of his soul.

"Oh. Yes, I suppose I do," he mused, as everything became obvious. The way he felt every time Sherlock smiled at him, the knowledge that his friend was the most loyal person he'd ever met and the realisation that every romantic relationship John had entered into had ended because his partner wasn't Sherlock. Even Mary - and John felt guilty admitting this - had only been allowed into his life to try and give him some comfort while he mourned the loss of his friend. He doubted they would've stayed together after she betrayed him again - after all, wasn't he already flirting with the girl on the bus? (and, thought John with a rueful smile, everyone knew how well that turned out...).

"Right. Well, who'd have thought it? Hmm?" John addressed the empty room and sank back into Sherlock's chair with a strange feeling of calm spreading through his limbs. Everything made sense and the only thing that remained was how to break the news to Sherlock and to hope - oh please - that he felt the same. Placing the now empty glass on the floor, he closed his eyes and drifted into an alcohol induced doze, the hat gently sliding down over his face and filling his nostrils with that divine, unique scent of that magnificent, irritating, wonderful man...

And this is how Sherlock found him on his return to the flat - fast asleep, snoring quietly, a small smile playing on his lips and Sherlock's 'damn hat' covering his eyes. Sherlock took a moment to gather himself and take in the scene, gazing with adoration at the man he loved and would go to the ends of the earth to protect.

"Oh John," murmured Sherlock, "all these years together and you still have no idea..." Quietly, he removed his coat and gently placed it over a still-snoozing John, who gave out the smallest of happy sighs as he snuggled into the coat's fabric, still warm from Sherlock's body. Sherlock grinned as he removed the hat from John's head and held it to his own face. "One day soon...I'll tell him. I have to," he whispered, "but I'm sure he can't possibly feel the same. Oh well...goodnight, dear John" and he made his way to his own room, the hat still in his hand.

Wish I was a talking hat, thought the hat. Those boys...


End file.
